


cry if you want to

by dreamtiwasanarchitect



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, American Football, Bars and Pubs, Booker | Sebastian le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Friendship, Depression, Drinking, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Acting Like a Married Couple, Multi, One Night Stands, Pre-Canon, Single Parents, Small Towns, Third Wheels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27637666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamtiwasanarchitect/pseuds/dreamtiwasanarchitect
Summary: Nicky serves him vegetable soup and homemade sourdough while Joe prattles on about their crops. Soybeans, apparently, and corn. Booker arrived just in time for harvest. Huzzah.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 40
Kudos: 181





	1. how to feel real

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Enemy Within](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26406583) by [superblackmarket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superblackmarket/pseuds/superblackmarket). 



> Big credit goes to superblackmarket's "The Enemy Within" for the definitive Booker + Joe/Nicky dynamic, which inspired this piece. 
> 
> I think of this as my love letter to the American Midwest. Please enjoy.

It’s a three-hour drive from the airport to Joe and Nicky’s farm. Booker remembers, vaguely, when they bought it, sometime in the mid-1800s. He didn’t understood it then and he doesn’t understand it now.

He gets there a little after seven and parks his rental car next to a rusty pick-up truck. There are several buildings on the property, but one’s very obviously a home to humans, while the others store farming equipment (he assumes).

Booker bangs on the door and waits. There’s a chill in the air and the sun’s nearly set. Several feet away, a corpulent chicken pecks at the ground. 

He knocks again and counts to thirty, then lets himself in. 

“Joe?” he calls. “Nicky?”

Booker drops his bag on the sofa and moves further into the house. When he’s in the kitchen, he hears it—the telltale thump of a headboard against the wall, and Nicky’s all-too familiar moans, soon joined by Joe’s.

He raids their cupboards for liquor and finds a half-empty handle of vodka and several vintage reds. He kicks his feet up on the table and makes it through two glasses of wine before Joe walks in, butt-fuck naked, and shouts in surprise. 

“Fucking hell! Book, shit, what the fuck are you doing here?” He makes no attempt to cover himself. There’s a couple vicious-looking bite marks healing up on his neck. 

“You invited me,” Booker says.

“Well, yeah, but we didn’t know you were coming!” Then Joe laughs and beams at him. “I’m glad you’re here, though. I need to get back up to Nicky, but then—”

Too late. Nicky appears, also naked, though there’s a flannel blanket draped over his shoulders.

“Booker, I thought I heard you,” he says serenely. He has come drying on his cheek. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Booker shrugs. “Just thought I’d come visit.” 

Joe pours a glass of water, takes a long drink, and passes it to Nicky, who finishes it while Joe says, “I see you found the wine.”

“Yeah, hope that’s all right.”

“Our wine is your wine, mon frère.” Joe grins again. “Let us go get dressed, we’ll be right back.”

Booker raises his glass to their retreating backs.

———

Nicky serves him vegetable soup and homemade sourdough while Joe prattles on about their crops. Soybeans, apparently, and corn. Booker arrived just in time for harvest. Huzzah.

They ask if he’s seen Andy since Somalia (he hasn’t), and what he’s been up to (drinking himself to death in increasingly dingy hotel rooms, though just says “taking it easy”), and what he wants to do while he’s there (nothing, anything, whatever). 

“Tomorrow I can teach you how to work the combine,” Joe tells him, like that will be an exciting treat. “Unless you’d rather help Nicky shear the sheep?”

He blinks. “Tough call. I’ll have to think about it.” 

Nicky refills everyone’s glass. They’ve made it through nearly three bottles, though Booker’s done most of the heavy lifting—he’s had enough that he feels a little warm and sleepy, like the edges of his perpetual black mood have been sanded off.

“What else do you two get up to out here—besides farming and fucking?” 

Joe laughs and Nicky grins a little, too.

“I’ve painted some beautiful sunsets,” Joe says. “And Nicky’s been volunteering with the local school.”

“There’s a school out here?”

“Well, it’s about ten miles away, but yeah.”

“What, are you teaching kids to read in a one-room schoolhouse?” 

Nicky frowns a little. “No. I coach the shooting team.”

Booker almost spits out his wine. “What?”

“It’s called ‘trap,’’ Joe explains. “They shoot clay targets with hunting rifles.”

“Does Andy know you’re doing this?” He’s equally amused and appalled.

“No, why?” 

He can’t get over the image of Nicky, with his very Italian accent and sniper’s training, teaching rural Midwestern kids how to shoot for sport. “I don’t know, doesn’t that raise some questions, draw suspicions?”

“Not so far.” Then Nicky smirks. “I make sure to miss a shot every now and then.” 

Joe laughs as he leans to kiss Nicky’s temple, and Booker can’t help joining in. 

———

It’s after midnight when they show him to the guest room up on the second floor, which shares a wall with theirs. Joe bids Booker goodnight while Nicky finishes making up the bed, complete with an awful patchwork quilt that likely dates back to the Dust Bowl. 

“I hope the bed is suitable,” Nicky is telling him. “I am not sure when someone last slept in it—perhaps it was Andy in the late 50s?” 

“It’ll be fine, you know I’ve slept in worse.”

“Yes, but that was out of necessity, not when you were our guest.” Nicky finishes tucking a sheet, which seems futile. “There are more blankets and pillows in the closet, should you want,” he continues. "You saw the bathroom, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have everything? Razor, soap, toothbrush? You can borrow ours if you need.” 

“Yeah, I—wait. Toothbrush, singular?” 

Nicky looks at him blankly. “Yes, our toothbrush.”

Booker feels his eye twitch. “You—never mind. I’m good, I have everything.”

Nicky quirks a smile at him then. “Goodnight, Booker. We are glad you’re here.” He brushes a hand over Booker’s shoulder on his way out.

Booker strips down to his boxers and gets into the bed. It’s lumpy but comfortable, though the covers feel oppressively warm and heavy. 

With considerable effort, he wrenches open the ancient window and lets the fall air pour into the stuffy little room. 

If they were in civilization, ambient noise from the outside would drown out any of the sounds coming from the other room. But out here in bum-fuck nowhere, the outdoors just leaks in a deeper silence. 

Booker had hoped the upside of arriving mid-fuck would be that he wouldn’t hear Joe and Nicky later in the night, but he has no such luck.

Through the wall comes Nicky’s purr: “I want you to fuck me through the mattress, my heart. Pound me so hard this bed breaks.”

“Ah, you’re insatiable, my love.”

“Mm, I’m still wet and open from earlier. And you’ll remember that you made certain promises.”

“Refresh my memory?”

“That you would—and I am quoting you—‘lick every drop of your come from my dripping hole.’”

“Oh, yes. How could I forget.” 

Their ancient boxspring squeaks, and Nicky’s cat-in-heat yowling follows. Booker rolls over in his own bed as noisily as he can and hopes they’ll take the hint.

———

The next morning he’s finishing up a spread of toast, hashed brown potatoes, and scrambled eggs (courtesy of their chickens, Nicky had informed him) when Joe comes downstairs with a pair of steel-toed workbooks in one hand and a baseball cap in the other.

“For you,” he tells Booker, beaming. His own hat is already crammed on backwards, curls poking out.

Booker looks at Nicky helplessly but only gets a bland, encouraging smile in return. He takes the hat, though he wears it the proper way. 

As promised, Joe shows him how to operate the combine, which is not exactly the thrill Joe thinks it is, but Booker tries to put on a happy face anyway. 

The sun is high in the sky by the time Joe asks if he’s ready to break for lunch. Booker agrees quickly—even though he’s not used to eating three square meals a day, he’s prepared to eat his weight in anything Nicky serves if it means he can be done with harvesting.

Joe’s face suddenly brightens, which is ominous. “Let’s go eat at the bar!” 

Booker stares around at the endless rows of soybeans. “There’s a bar?”

“Yeah, just about ten miles away.”

“What, right next to the school?”

Joe laughs. “No, no, opposite direction. Come on.” 

———

After rumbling down a gravel road in Joe’s pick-up, they arrive at a town, population ninety-six. There are a few other vehicles parked outside the little bar, which looks like it would collapse in on itself in a light breeze.

Inside, it’s sticky tables and wall-to-wall posters advertising beers with names that all end in “Light.” 

“Hey Joe,” calls a woman from behind the bar. Her blonde ponytail swishes as she fully turns to face them. Her smile takes a curious edge as she looks at Booker. “Who’s this?”

“This is my friend, Booker. Booker, this is Amy, she owns this place.” 

Amy grins, her teeth white and straight. “Booker? You a big reader?”

He forces a smile. “Something like that.” 

“Well, I won’t hold you being Joe’s friend against you,” she says, and Joe beams at the teasing. “Go ahead and sit, I’ll get your orders in a sec.”

As they make their way to a table, Joe gives a nod and wave to a man sitting at the other end of the bar. 

“Hey, Barry, how’s harvest going?” 

The man eyes them a little suspiciously, but when he answers, it’s friendly enough. “It’s goin’. How ‘bout you?”

Joe laughs. “It’s goin’.” 

They claim a sticky table of their own and Joe orders for both of them. The beer tastes like water and the variety of fried things that come served in a plastic basket make Booker’s stomach turn, but before he knows it he’s eaten five pieces of the breaded cheese. 

“Not bad, right?” Joe asks as he munches on a fried pickle.

“It’s disgusting,” Booker says, and takes another corn nugget. 

Joe winks. “Nicky legitimately hates it. And whenever we get back home, he rants about how unsuitable this kind of cuisine is for people whose organs don’t regenerate.” 

Booker snorts and finishes his beer. Amy re-materializes next to their table.

“Another round, boys?”

“Ah, no, we need to get back, unfortunately,” Joe answers before Booker can mentally switch from French to English.

Amy nods. She tears their bill from her orders pad and slides it down on the table. “Coming for the game tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Joe grins and fishes cash out of his wallet. “Remind me who we’re playing?” 

“Iowa,” Amy says darkly. “Kick off at nine-thirty.”

“We’ll see you then.” Joe stands and Booker follows his lead. Amy looks at him.

“You a big football fan, Booker?”

“I watch a fair bit,” he says, thinking of South Africa two years prior. Nicky had brought a book, but he and Joe had screamed their voices hoarse over the vuvuzelas. It had been nice.

“Go big Red!” Amy says, clearly waiting for a response. He blinks and her smile falters. 

“Go big Red,” Joe echoes, and starts to herd Booker out the door. “Have a good one, Amy!”

———

Over shakshuka, Joe and Nicky break the news that the football Amy was referring to is American, not Association. 

Booker groans. “And we’ll be watching?”

“Oh yeah, Book, you have to,” Joe says. “It’s a racket, everyone here gets so swept up.”

“I haven’t seen an American football game since, what, the final in the 70s?” 

“Don’t worry,” Joe reassures him, “the rules haven’t changed.”

Booker sighs and accepts the second helping Nicky pushes on him. 


	2. let the drump beat drop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some brief, not-super-graphic Booker/OFC in this chapter.

The next morning, Booker reluctantly pulls on the red sweatshirt emblazoned with a giant white “N” Joe had forced on him the previous night before trudging down the stairs.

Nicky is making pancakes while Joe, pressed up behind him, rains kisses down his neck. Joe’s wearing a red and white jersey, while Nicky’s black t-shirt features a skull and crossbones with a helmet, paired with “THROW THE BONES.” 

“Morning,” Joe chirps when he spots Booker. 

“Go fix our drinks, per favore,” Nicky tells Joe.

Booker is equally intrigued and confused. “You know it’s not even nine?”

“Trust me,” Nicky says shrewdly over his shoulder, “you do not want to arrive at this spectacle without alcohol in your system.”

Once they gulp down vodka-heavy Bloody Marys—one for Joe, two for Nicky, and three for Booker—and polish off stacks of pancakes, they file out of the house. 

Joe slides behind the wheel of the truck and Nicky hops in to the middle seat without complaint. He takes several long pulls from Booker’s flash when offered, and Booker gets the sense that he might not be the only one who’s not entirely excited about the game.

“So you do this every weekend?”

“Most of them,” Joe says cheerfully. “Just during football season, of course.”

Booker pulls a face. “ _Football_.” 

Nicky hides his smirk in the flask.

“Really though—you enjoy being around these people?” Based on the number of billboards he saw about a baby being God’s choice on his drive from the airport, Booker has a difficult time imagining that the people here are overly welcoming to a biracial gay couple.

Nicky’s gaze sharpens over the flask.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Joe asks.

“I don’t know, don’t they see you as…outsiders?” 

“Well, we _are_.” Joe smiles a little. “Aren’t we always?”

“I guess.”

“It is good, I think, to see how people live,” Nicky pipes in. “It is easy for us to forget, sometimes.” 

He hands back the flask. Booker takes a long pull and looks out the window. 

———

The bar is considerably more packed today. As they file in and weave around clumps of people to claim some barstools, Joe and Nicky both smile and wave to Barry the farmer, who’s there with a woman who is his presumably his wife and three children that are presumably his. 

Booker mentally starts to guess their ages—probably all between six and eleven—but redirects his focus to the bottle of beer Amy is sliding his way.

“Hey,” she says brightly. “Ya came back.” 

“Yep.” He racks his brain for something else to say as she keeps smiling at him, but finally her attention turns to Nicky.

“Hey Nicky!”

“Hello, Amy,” he says warmly, and gives her hand a squeeze. Booker thinks she may swoon, but she’s called away to the other end of the bar before she can strike up further conversation.

As Booker expected, American football is painfully dull, but the pain is eased by polishing off eight watery beers in a two-hour span. 

He turns to Joe as it cuts to yet another commercial. “So it’s over now?” 

Joe laughs. “No, Book, it’s half-time.”

Nicky shoots him a commiserating look and orders another gin and tonic. 

Before the game resumes, Booker also switches to hard liquor—vodka, specifically—and he’s thoroughly smashed by the end of what Joe tells him is the third quarter.

It’s making it much easier to talk to Amy. Booker and Joe have fabricated an entire backstory—they all attended Trinity College together. Joe and Booker met as teammates playing on the football—or rather, soccer—team. 

Amy looks very impressed by this. 

The game, Booker thinks desperately, must be over soon—it’s been hours, for fuck’s sake—but with each “on the house” cocktail Amy slides his way, he starts to care a little less about this interminable sport. 

After winding her way through the tables to drop off beers and baskets of fried foods, Amy comes to lean over the bar next to Booker’s stool, gazing at the TV screen as the game goes into overtime. 

Their elbows are almost brushing, and Booker can smell her perfume, strong and sweet, the fragrance mingling oddly with the smell of deep-fried appetizers. 

Booker is staring into his beer and thinking about the time in Sao Paolo when the entire bar erupts into screams. Amy grasps his forearm and turns to him, grinning widely.

Based on the celebratory shouting, Booker gathers that their team has won. Someone calls for shots, and one is pushed into Booker’s hand before he has time to refuse. Joe and Nicky are faster, though, and they manage to abstain.

Booker sniffs at the shot. “What is this?”

Joe leans in for a smell and wrinkles his nose. “Ugh. It’s that disgusting cinnamon whiskey.”

Nicky pulls a face. “Foul.”

Booker shrugs and tips it back. He grimaces. “Yeah, that’s…not good.”

Joe laughs and sips at his water.

Things start to get fuzzy after that, and Booker becomes less aware of what’s actually happening and more aware of the fact that he’s entered a brownout, an altered staying that’s become elusive since his liver began regenerating.

Amy winds up back at his side. “Hey,” she says quietly enough that he has to lean down in to hear her. 

Her hand is on his arm again. “You wanna get out of here? Caitlin and Laura just showed up for their shifts.”

“Um,” he says. 

She looks up at him, expectant. 

“I, uh—I don’t know if my friends had anything else planned for today, you know, while I’m in town. I’ll. I’ll check,” he finishes lamely. Amy nods and goes to collect some of the empties at a nearby table, and Booker turns to Joe and Nicky, who are shrugging their jackets back on.

“Amy wants me to go home with her,” he tells them. 

Nicky’s face is impassive, but Joe grins and slaps his shoulder. “Just be home in time for curfew.”

“I should go?”

Joe frowns. “Well, only if you want.”

“Do you want?” Nicky asks.

The only thing Booker has really wanted for the last two-hundred years is a death that would stick, but he’s not about to tell them that. 

“I guess,” he says. “Sure.”

“Then have fun. We’ll see you later.”

And then they’re gone, and he turns around and sees Amy waiting, keys in hand. 

———

It takes less than five minutes for Amy to drive them to her house, a small ranch in the middle of town. They make a little awkward small talk, enough for Booker to learn that Amy has lived here her whole life, loves a singer called Carrie Underwood, and has two dogs named Brooks and Dunn, which were named by her ex-husband, who now lives twenty minutes away. 

Booker stumbles after Amy into her bedroom, where she pauses before pulling her shirt off. 

“It’s been awhile,” she confesses. “I haven’t—it’s been awhile, is all.”

“Oh.” He shifts on his feet. “We don't have to—”

“No, I, I want to.” She resumes undressing and Booker feels like he shouldn’t be watching. He starts taking off his own clothes, mostly to have something to do. 

They fall into the bed and she looks up at him, like maybe she wants him to kiss her, or something else Booker can’t fathom.

He slides down and goes down on her to save himself from more prolonged eye contact. He’s always been good at this, and a couple hundred years of extra practice has only helped. 

He licks Amy to orgasm. When he pulls away, she reaches for his cock, only to find that he’s not hard, which is par for the course. 

“Sorry, I—”

“Whiskey dick,” Amy nods. “Happens to lots of guys, I get it.” 

And, well, that’s a better explanation than “sometimes I can’t get it up because I keep thinking of my dead wife and wishing I was dead, too” so he just nods. 

“It was really good, for me,” she tells him. “Let me know if I—if there’s anything I can do, you know, for you.”

He forces a smile. “Maybe just a nap, right now.”

“It’s been a day,” Amy says agreeably, and they slide under the covers, carefully keeping to their separate sides of the bed. 

The room is spinning a little. Booker shuts his eyes and falls into an uneasy sleep. 

———

When he wakes up, he’s hangover-free, though that likely has something to do with the time he slept—the sun, which had barely set when he passed out, is now poking through the curtains. 

There’s also a child peering in through the doorway. 

“Ah.” Booker clears his throat and immediately snatches up his discarded boxers. “Hi there.”

The boy watches as he awkwardly puts his on his underwear beneath the sheets. “Who are you?”

“Uh, my name is—”

“Are you my mom’s new boyfriend?”

Booker blinks. The kid is probably just school-aged, around six or seven. It’s a good age, he remembers.

“Kyson!” 

Amy’s at the door. “Baby, SpongeBob’s back, go on,” she tells the boy, and he wanders off. 

“Sorry,” Amy says. “He was supposed to be with his dad this weekend, but he dropped him off early.”

“Oh, that’s fine.” Booker shifts and peers around for the rest of his clothes. “I should find my way back to Joe and Nicky’s anyway.” 

“I can drive you,” Amy says, and that sounds unpleasant, but he doesn’t see another option—even if he had a number to reach Joe and Nicky at, he’s anxious to end his stay at Amy’s as soon as possible.

So Booker throws on his clothes and he, Amy, and Kyson—who fills the awkward silence by confirming that yes, he is six and his best friend is Dillon and his favorite animal is a naked mole rat—spend the next ten minutes rattling along in Amy’s beat-up car.

“How long you in town for?” Amy asks as she parks. 

“Not sure,” he answers honestly. “But probably only a couple more days.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and rests his hand on the door handle, as if he’s waiting to be excused. 

“Well.” Amy smiles with what looks like is some effort. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Booker makes a face that is possibly just a grimace and nods.

“Bye!” Kyson shouts as Booker climbs out of the car. He looks back at the kid and feels like he might cry.

“Bye,” he manages. “Good to meet you, Kyson.” 

———

Booker sneaks into his room without running into Joe or Nicky, though he’s sure they heard his steps creaking throughout the house. He takes a quick shower, then passes several hours laying in bed, staring up at the wall, until there’s a knock on the door. 

“Book?” It’s Joe.

“Come in,” he calls back.

Joe plops down at the foot of the bed. “What are you doing in here?”

Booker shrugs a shoulder. “Just relaxing.”

“How was Amy’s?” Joe wiggles his eyebrows.

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Joe laughs. “Is that what you are?”

Booker can’t help smiling a little. “Sometimes.”

“Come downstairs? We have something for you.”

Booker narrows his eyes. “What?”

“It’s a surprise. Come on.”

In the kitchen, Nicky is setting down a piping tube. He hefts an enormous cake from the counter to the table and smiles at them.

“For you,” he tells Booker.

The cake is covered in white frosting with a blue “happy birthday” written in Nicky’s cramped cursive. 

“Happy birthday!” He almost jumps as Joe hugs him from behind. “Or anniversary, however you like. Two-hundred years, it’s gone so fast.”

Maybe for them, Booker thinks. 

“It’s red velvet,” Nicky says, gesturing to the cake. “Your favorite, yes?”

“Yeah. Um, thanks, I…” Booker swallows. “It looks great, Nicky.” 

Nicky smiles. “Would you like a piece?” 

He nods. He takes a seat at the table while Nicky cuts the cake and Joe plates it.

“Cheers to you, Book,” Joe says, raising his fork. 

“Yes, to you, mon frère.” 

“Cheers,” he says, and takes a bite to avoid forcing another smile. 

The cake is delicious. Booker feels like he might be sick. 


End file.
